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Originally Posted by CityOfAngels
They stink now, but they were pretty good for awhile.
I think the antichrist isn't a person, but rather an idea. That idea is pure capitolism.
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((Not to derail, just a quick aside.))
Well each to their own, I've never liked em.
Has anyone seen this interview with 'U2' (actually just Bono, with a couple of lines from the drummer)? Reading it, I could actually believe he was the anti-christ. I wonder if this guy could get his tongue further in?
Clickton McClicky
(Click for the rest - it's bloody long)
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In a world of their own
Who would have thought it? Twenty-five years on from his first encounter with U2, Paul Morley joins the band on tour in North America to discover the ways in which they're still rewriting rock's rule book
Sunday December 18, 2005
U2: 1
In a vast penthouse suite on top of a hotel that could be anywhere in the world overlooking a city that seems to shimmer out of an endless mist, Bono Vox (Latin for Good Singer, a nickname given to him by his new band mates in U2 back in the Dublin Seventies because it seemed to suit this cocky, stocky kid) serenely pads through a sitting room carved out of gold, mahogany and marble that is a shrill hybrid of Sir Elton John plush and Sir Mick Jagger ornate. He chuckles at the flamboyant surroundings that look a little vulnerable in the harsh yellow light of the day. 'It's the size of a small nation,' he unapologetically grins. A small nation having no problems with poverty. Baskets laden with fruits, chocolates, cheese and champagne are littered across the land. The champagne has been drunk, a few hours earlier, when the penthouse suite at night looked a little prouder. A denim jacket is slung over the back of a chair that Cher would wish to be draped over when she is buried. A badge pinned to the jacket's lapel announces: 'Horses changed my life.'
It's some approximation of midday the day after Bono has performed with U2 in this city located firmly inside the international 21st century. His dark glasses have yet to be put on, and his penetrating, mesmeric eyes are rubbed, pinched and scraped raw from the performance, on the back of all the other performances, and a late night, possibly the ten thousandth in his life, spent crammed inside a VIP area not the size of a small nation roped off in a local club. When he's in a city, as a visiting star with demotic political power and the unstable charisma of someone who cannot enter a room without wanting to add it to his collection of rooms that he owns, his immediate points of reference are: airport, hotel, venue, local nightclub, possibly the home of the local billionaire philanthropist or the office of an important politician, and the roads that join them up. The rest is filled in with his imagination.
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